


Of Being Inside A Fairy's Tale

by Spiderheart



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Outlander (TV)
Genre: Discussion of PTSD, Eunuch Character, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Contracts, Gay Characters That Aren't Evil, Gender Non-Conforming Character, Gore, Guro, Magic, Vartan is a particularly mad Ravenclaw, Vartan is spooky but he's ok really, harry potter magic but this isn't a HP universe, look if you were from our world and found out magic worked, modern psychotherapy techniques, the person isn't from the HP universe either, you'd use HP magic too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: A different way the last scene in s01e08 "Both Sides Now" plays out. An AU.





	1. In Which There Are Gentlemen, Gentle Men, and a White Cat

**Author's Note:**

> So hi, I'm new here. After watching through season 1, I was left feeling angry and ill-served by the narrative, so I did what I always do, and changed it with fanfiction. I wanted to introduce a queer character that wasn't evil or unworthy, because I was angry that the only queer representation was an antisocial sadist on one side, and a pathetic ugly old queen on the other—both of them tiresome _old_ stereotypes, that rigidly adhere to the Hays Code (not something to be proud of). 
> 
> E2A: I am perfectly aware of John Grey. That does not change my opinion or point in any fashion—in fact, it rather enforces it. 
> 
> So, after labouring through watching the first season with one fic on the other half of my screen to cope, I switched OCs and ended up with something much more worthy of sharing. Everyone, meet Vartan Bathurst.

Vartan heard screaming, and he knew how to draw power around him; he had his uniform on, thank God, and so he wielded considerable power. He aristocrat-ed his way up to the source of the screaming, and whispered an incantation that undid the door, quieting the hinges as he slipped inside, crouched. The shot that went off missed, aiming for a standing target, and Vartan rose to his feet, whipping his wand through the air.

_‘Impedimenta!’_

And the half-dressed captain froze with a look of surprise, the half-dressed woman beneath him taking the opportunity to shove at him and run away. She paused, looking at Vartan, unsure.

‘Am I right in thinking this _person_ was assaulting you, madam?’ Vartan asked, not taking his eyes off of the frozen figure of Jack Randall.

‘Yes,’ she said, rushing to tuck herself inside her ruined clothes as best she could.

‘I have a spare bit of string in my pocket,’ he said, reaching into his coat pocket and producing the spool. ‘Forgive my seeing, but it seems you are missing some lacings.’

She took them.

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble, madam,’ he said politely. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with him?’

Someone wrenched open the window, then, and Vartan made a decision.

‘ _Stupefy!’_

Randall dropped like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the desk on the way down in a way that would likely hurt later, and might have broken more than one bone.

‘Jamie!’ Claire said, and Vartan pointed his wand at the floor

‘Claire!’ Jamie climbed through the window, and they held one another tightly. He looked over her black curls to the strange redcoat, and levelled his pistol. ‘Who are you?’

‘He saved me, Jamie,’ Claire said. ‘And my modesty,’ she added, still re-lacing her bodice. ‘He’s been a perfect gentleman.’

‘I am Doctor Vartan James Bathurst,’ the stranger offered with a pleasant smile.

‘A redcoat, then.’

‘Oh, no, I just took this from a dead man,’ Vartan lied. ‘What year is it?’

‘1743.’

‘Oh my, well, in that case, I shall take up tartan immediately.’

‘What year are you from?’ Claire asked, peering at his uniform a little closer, realising it was not at all the same as Randall’s—or any other Redcoat’s. It was _newer_ , though she was not historian enough to date it exactly.

‘That is a complex answer, as I have come from a time different than my own. The King’s Roads, you know.’ He paused, seeing the confusion upon their faces. ‘You _don’t_ know,’ he deduced, brows raised. ‘The Raven King, King of the north of England until he disappeared in 1434?’

‘I dunnae ken of any Raven King,’ Jamie said, ‘do you, Claire?’

‘No,’ Claire said, ‘but—what do you mean, the Raven King’s roads?’

‘The roads between this world, and others. Faerie, and Hell, and so on. I was exploring, I came through and thought I had only come a distance—apparently I was wrong. 1743, Scotland?’

‘Scotland,’ Claire confirmed.

‘Well, I survived Faerie,’ Vartan said philosophically. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s play make-believe, and I’ll get you out of here. What’s the spell for ropes, ropes… oh, yes, _Incarcerous!_ Oops,’ he said, as thin cords bound Randall, as the wand had been pointing that direction. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s probably for the best.’

‘We can get out on our own,’ Jamie said, not much trusting a mad wizard, and eyeing the stick mistrustfully.

‘I think you should come with us,’ Claire said, unwilling to just leave him behind, when he’d stepped in and saved her from what would almost certainly have turned into a prolonged torture session.

‘Yes, I shall meet you anon,’ Vartan said. ‘Do meet me in the woods, in an hour. Here,’ he said, fishing a coin from his pocket and handing it to her. ‘This coin will help me find you. No need for risky beacons or waiting at a location,’ he said, and Claire marvelled at it, a little stunned.

‘I do magic, yes,’ Vartan said to the unasked questions littering the air. ‘Never met the devil, though. Only fairies. Go on, now,’ he said briskly, glancing at Randall, still out cold on the floor. ‘I’ll be along.’

As soon as they’d gone, Vartan turned to Randall. ‘Now then,’ he said, in a very different, shatterglass growl. ‘You and I are going to have some _fun_ …’

.oOo.

Claire and Jamie were getting into the boat when they heard the screaming, from the same location. It was a man’s scream.

Claire didn’t think too hard about it; she was too busy trying not to go into shock. Jamie, however, looked up toward the tower, and wondered.

Well, they’d see when the man came looking for them.

.oOo.

Vartan adored excuses to really _indulge_ the Beast. His subject was alive, and Vartan was very sure that he would not be alive much longer, as he carefully sawed through another rib.

‘I don’t want to cut through your diaphragm, you see,’ the Beast said, in that high, tight little voice. ‘I want to enjoy the beating—have you ever held a beating heart? I feel,’ he said, as he finally made a hole big enough for his hands. ‘That it’s rather the most wonderful thing someone can do, holding another person’s beating heart. Ah!’ he said, and smiled, feeling it flutter, like a trapped bird. ‘Oh, and now you’re going to start feeling woozy, don’t worry, that’s just the blood loss. Your brain is slowly shutting down, you see, the little synapses flickering and dying. The pain should stop soon, when your brain fires off all your pleasure centres at once. One last little hurrah before oblivion…’

When oblivion came, Vartan took over again, removing the heart and humming to himself. He already had a perfect little specimen jar prepared, and slid the heart in, shutting it tightly. He didn’t have any formaldehyde, or alcohol enough to waste on such a thing; but he figured it wouldn’t matter. He tucked the jar inside his bag, and cleaned his tools and himself using magic, and dressed, going back downstairs and leaving the prison.

He tapped his wand to his clothes, changing them to something that would blend better with the shadows of the moor, and walked toward the beacon-coin. He hummed to himself, making sure to not walk quietly, as he got close.

 _The more it snows tiddly-pom_  
_The more is goes tiddly-pom_  
_The more it keeps tiddly-pom_  
_On snowing._

‘That’ll be him,’ Jamie said, and got up to make sure the current guards wouldn't attack him.

‘Hello, sorry I’m late,’ Vartan said cheerfully. ‘I had to take care of Randall.’

‘After what he did t’Claire?’ Jamie snapped. Vartan blinked behind his spectacles, looking shocked; Jamie waited for the English offence, but it didn’t come.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I should have chosen my words more carefully. When I say “take care of Randall”, I mean—well, if you’ll just—yes, oh, please be careful with that, lad, it has a surgery kit in it.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Claire said, eager to have a field surgeon’s kit in her hands, even if it wasn’t hers. She opened it carefully, and gasped at the sight of a heart in a jar.

‘What is it?’ Jamie asked, hearing the horror and still not best trusting this strange, mad Englishman.

‘There appears to be a human heart,’ Claire said, voice rather distant. ‘In a jar.’

‘I’m afraid I am rather a creature of folktales,’ Vartan said apologetically. ‘I thought it might cheer you, having proof of Randall’s demise.’

Claire felt a strange calm, as she pulled the jar from the bag, and held it up to the firelight. ‘Black Jack Randall’s heart,’ she said, fascinated.

‘Och, it’s no as black as it should be.’ Rupert commented.

‘I thought it’d be a wee shriven thing,’ Murtagh agreed.

Angus clapped Vartan on the shoulder, not having to reach down to do it. ‘Ye’re all right, for an Englishman.’

‘Well,’ Vartan said, blushing. ‘He hurt a lady. I cannot abide those who harm the helpless. I’ve killed fairies—an Englishman is much easier.’

‘You believe in fairies?’ Claire was still determined not to believe in them.

‘I don’t need to believe in them, madam,’ Vartan said, as he sat down next to her, by the fire. ‘I have seen them, and plenty of them. I have been to Faerie, and to a place in that country called Lost Hope, to aid a young lady, who had been sold to them by a wicked English magician.’

He told them the entire tale—he had no compunction about keeping his origin secret, for which Claire envied him. Of course, a man would be respected more than a woman, even an English man.

He also, Claire observed, was a very good teacher, had a way of explaining things to the men—and, despite being very clearly not what would be called a man’s man, he seemed to understand something about the rough male culture here that Claire did not. She wondered, and asked.

‘You said, sir, that you were a surgeon, even before finding yourself on the battlefield in 1816; where did you practise? London?’

‘Oh, heavens, no. A prison in the Caribbean.’

Claire raised her brows. A prison! No wonder he understood the roughness of male culture—it was not just the army, but criminals, that he was familiar with!

‘Expect much healin’, in a prison?’ Rupert asked, genuinely curious.

‘Prisons are very different in 2017, my lad,’ said Vartan, poking up the fire and looking grim. ‘It isn’t just the rope or freedom. There’s sentences—years you spend inside—as punishment.’ He scoffed. ‘Not that it’s designed to do anything but get around abolition laws. Still,’ he said, ‘Valuable, my time serving the incarcerated. God put me on this earth to heal, an I shall do my duty where—and when—it please Him.’

Amens were offered all round.

‘Now, madam,’ he said, as the other men talked amongst themselves about the watch shift, ‘are you hurt?’

‘Only a few scratches,’ Claire said, quick to reassure him. ‘You intervened at a most fortunate time.’

Vartan held her gaze. ‘A creature like that does most of his damage to the mind; and I have some small skill at that kind of healing,’ he said it softly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I… may take you up on that later, when we have a moment.’ Claire stared at the flames. ‘I have had members of the British Army try to rape me no less than three times, in my few months here. You’d think I’d’ve got used to it.’

‘One never gets used to being assaulted, sugar,’ Vartan said gently, and, only hesitating a moment, he put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

‘Sugar?’

‘Florida is the south, dear. They—we, I suppose—use “sugar” and “honey” down there, more than our “dear” and “love”.’

Claire laughed, a little, and then began, quite suddenly, to cry. He draped his coat around her shoulders, and looked at Jamie as he came over, sitting on Claire’s other side, glaring a little at Vartan.

‘When a lady is crying, you comfort her,’ he said to Jamie, still unsure of revealing the _other_ reason Claire was safe with him.

‘Aye, but Claire’s my wife.’

‘Then _you_ hug her,’ Vartan said, and opened his case, rummaging in it; Jamie accepted that, holding Claire and kissing her temple, even as Vartan looked through his medicines. Jamie doubted there was anything there to soothe crying.

Vartan finally came back with a small porcelain doll, intricate and beautiful, and presented it to Claire. ‘This is Comfort,’ he said, gently. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

‘She’s no a child,’ Jamie began, but Claire took the doll, sniffling.

‘She was made for me as a gift, by a very dear friend,’ Vartan said, his smile sad.

‘What was your friend’s name?’ Claire said, glad to have something else to focus on.

‘Arabella Strange,’ Vartan said, and began to tell Claire all about her—about her drawings, and her wit, and how very close she and Vartan had been, bosom friends, to the point that Vartan had delivered her baby—babies, as it had turned out.

The doll had been from the best dollmaker in all of the Isles, who had still had to take great pains with it. Claire could see why—the doll was so delicately made that even her fingers moved separately. Claire became fascinated by the way the firelight gleamed on the very real-looking fingernails, each painted with a fine little half moon, and a white tip, like a real one. Comfort even had tiny pale veins painted on the insides of her pale arms. Her dress was beautifully intricate, and Claire let Vartan telling her about it wash over her, soothing and distracting, letting her rest from fear as Jamie rubbed her back with his warm hand, the heavy drape of Vartan’s coat over her shoulders.

Eventually, she fell asleep against Jamie, and Vartan smiled, gently taking the doll from her, and putting her away, closing that part of his bag. Mastering the multi-dimensional bag had been his and Jonathan’s latest feat, and Vartan was so glad to be able to go adventuring with everything he really needed, and only have to carry his little doctor bag. It made helping trauma easier, to have all of his dolls available to let someone hold and talk about, distracting them and not letting the shock take hold.

‘She’s no cold an shaking,’ Jamie said, softly, holding Claire’s hands in his. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Distraction keeps away shock, after a terrible event,’ Vartan was happy to explain. ‘I have some little experience with healing the mind, as well as being a surgeon.’

A white cat had trotted into the firelight, and interrupted their conversation with an imperial miaow, blue eyes cold and princely. Vartan looked over at the cat, which was staring at him, long tail lashing the air. It miaowed again.

‘I am being summoned,’ Vartan said, with fond exasperation, latching his bag closed and hesitating, before leaving it. ‘I shall be back before dawn,’ he told Jamie. ‘Please look after my bag for me.’

‘Ye’re followin’ a cat all night?’

‘Yes, well, remember how I told you about the fairy and Lady Pole?’

‘Aye.’

‘I exchanged myself for Lady Pole. So now it is _I_ that must go to Faerie every night, and return in the morning.’ He spoke as he got to his feet. The cat stood, and walked away into the darkness. ‘It’s been lovely meeting all of you; I shall try and bring something nice for breakfast.’

He stepped into the darkness, and was gone.

‘We’re no waitin for him,’ Murtagh said, not best trusting the man—but it was the way you mistrusted fairies, not Englishmen.

‘He said he’d be back afore dawn, not after,’ said Jamie, gently laying Claire down in her bedroll, and tucking her in. ‘An he’s done a good turn for us already, killin’ Randall.’

‘Aye, an’ brought the whole army after us,’ Murtagh said grimly.

‘He killed Randall,’ Jamie said, stubbornly as always. ‘No matter what happens now, Black Jack Randall is nae more doin’ his evil. Service to all Scots, that.’

‘All _right_ , so he’s done more than just save the Sassenach. But now we’ve got _two_ bloody Sassenachs tagging along.’

‘Healers, both of ‘em,’ Jamie put in.

Murtagh growled. ‘We’re leavin’ at first light,’ he said, which was as good as conceding the argument.

.oOo.

‘This is a strange version of the North,’ Thistle said, after Vartan gave his customary kiss of greeting. ‘They’re all Christians now, and there was never any Ravenking.’

‘It’s a North I’m more familiar with,’ Vartan said, twining his fingers with Thistle’s as they walked, holding hands still feeling very bold and daring. ‘I like them.’

‘They don’t like you.’

‘That’s rather expected, from Scots to English,’ Vartan said. ‘Did you like your present?’

‘It was delicious,’ Thistle said, grinning with teeth like thorns. ‘There is nothing more succulent than humans that have done terrible things. I would have liked the heart,’ he added, somewhat petulantly.

‘No,’ Vartan said, ‘the heart is theirs to keep.’

‘They aren’t going to eat it,’ Thistle protested, as they took to the dance floor together, twirling in a waltz.

‘That is as may be—I shall find you plenty to eat, for I do believe there’s a war coming.’

‘Goody,’ Thistle said, as the dance ended, and the bell tolled the feast. As Vartan hoped, the entire body had been used, and there were two whole-roasted thighs upon the table, still wrapped in clay, marrow-filled bones served alongside.

‘Floreat perditisti spem,’ Vartan murmured, for Lost Hope was, even now, looking less abandoned to dust, and he could see twilight on the horizon, rather than night.

‘Thanks in no small part to you, husband,’ Thistle said, leaning against him happily. ‘You are a marvellous person, quite bloodthirsty.’

‘Not blood,’ Vartan said, sitting at Thistle’s right hand. ‘Flesh.’

Thistle laughed, as did all the fairies in earshot, and the feast began.


	2. In Which There Are A Number of Pixies, A Brief Discussion Of Theology, And Coffee (Made Properly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vartan makes good his promises to return and bring Something Nice For Breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee would have been a known but relatively rare drink, and not one sipped in the morning, but rather later at night. Vartan makes it with a French Press, which is one of the best ways to make coffee, and certainly more tidy than a pour-over method. However, the coffee must be removed from the grounds as soon as it is done brewing, to prevent over-brewing (it is the same with tea, though with coffee, the ruination is much more apparent to the tongue). 
> 
> I know all this because I used to be married to a barista. I cannot actually consume caffeine due to a health condition, so my appreciation of coffee is limited to theory and scent.

Claire was up when Vartan returned, stepping out from a fairy-ring at first light, wearing a fine but sturdy suit of black worsted. In the morning light, and after a night’s sleep, she could really see him for the first time. He was a tall man, extraordinarily tall, and reminded her somewhat of those who had Marfan’s, all limbs and length, with no width, and a strangely barrel chest. Yet he didn’t stoop, or exhibit signs that his joints or heart were not in good order. It was possible that his time had perfected corrective surgery for it, however.

His long, curly hair was a deep, but very rich, red, with a single gold-white streak, that he showed off with how he parted it. This morning it was in a braid, tied off with elastic at the end. It pulled hair back from a face that was still boyish—and belonged to a very androgynous boy, at that. Still, the soft lines of age showed in crow’s-feet, and smile lines. His nose had just enough bump to hold up the spectacles he wore to frame his crackle-glass blue eyes, and his mouth was small but full, a perfect moue for the era’s aesthetic.

If Claire was not very much mistaken, he was also wearing makeup—it was barely visible, Claire only knew it because she was used to the look of makeup, herself; she doubted her companions knew it was there—they would only see a man uncommon beautiful. His eyebrows were very definitely pencilled, however—nobody’s eyebrows were that perfectly shaped, or that sharply edged.

His clothes were not strictly the kind from this era—the breeches fit too well and had reinforcements and piecing that seemed too modern, too practical, and his boots, while looking like they’d been made with period tools, nevertheless had far too high and shapely a heel. His jacket fit too well, though it had the cuffs and stylings of the others, enough to blend in—but for the colour. Everything he wore was black, even the shirt and the stock for it. A surgeon’s black, Claire knew immediately; but she wondered if it would be well-received, here.

All in all, he seemed… elegant, strange, in his own clothes—and even more like someone from a hundred years after she’d been born. He spoke like her, true; but in all other ways he seemed alien. His long hands were decorated with silver rings, large and figural, and she wondered at their figures. One was a skull, another, a coiled octopus. One had a beautiful amethyst set into it.

He wasn’t like her, Claire realised—he was already a seasoned time-traveller. He wasn’t _upset_ , he wasn’t _stuck_ , he was just _slightly lost_ , and now travelling back and forth freely. Just now he had a basket on his arm of fine willow, shaped to hold bottles, or cups.

‘Good morning,’ he said brightly to her, and held it up. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please,’ Claire said, and took the strange cup he handed her from the basket. It was ceramic, with a large handle she could slip her hand into, and had bold flowers on it. The colours seemed garishly bright, against the muted natural colours of all the things here. She had to puzzle with the lid, before realising it twisted to reveal an opening, and drank. Black coffee was something she’d gotten used to, during the war, when cream and sugar were luxuries few wasted on tea or coffee.

It was _wonderful_ black coffee; she’d never tasted a cup so bright and without bitterness. She couldn’t help the moan that rose in her chest, and she looked at Vartan with new appreciation as she felt the liquid sunshine getting into her every fingertip (or so it felt).

‘ _Thank_ you.’

‘You’re quite welcome,’ he said, sitting beside her, and starting to pull things from the basket: a little shiny paper sack of ground coffee; a strange pitcher with a plunger in the lid, that pressed all the way down; a copper kettle, which he filled from the stream as Claire sat with her coffee. He sipped his coffee while they both watched the kettle, not needing to poke the fire thanks to Claire’s log-chute.

There was a watch set, but it was up the hill, where there were better lookout spots, and they’d set camp to the north, for logical reasons. The last watch shift was also Ned Gowan and Dougal, who were both the eldest, and so got up the earliest and slept the least in any case. Claire and Vartan were alone, for the moment.

‘How did you sleep?’ Vartan asked.

‘I don’t remember any dreams,’ Claire said. ‘That was surprising; I expected nightmares.’

‘That’s good,’ Vartan said, smiling. ‘Do you want a hug?’

Claire thought about it. ‘I wouldn’t mind one,’ she decided. ‘Yes,’ she said, warming to the idea. ‘Yes, a hug sounds very nice.’

He hugged tightly, and was warm, smelling pleasantly of clean clothes and a perfume that wore well on him. She felt better afterward, more present.

‘I want to teach you something that might be helpful, when you find yourself lost in bad memories, or if something bad should happen again,’ he said. ‘It’s very simple, and might feel silly; but it does help.’

Claire thought about it for a while, sipping her coffee and watching the fire for a while. ‘Can it wait until after the coffee?’

‘The coffee is going to help me teach you, actually. Take the lid off, like this.’ He took the lid off of his carefully, and put it in the basket. Claire copied him, and put hers in the basket as well—it would be cleaner that way. The smell of the coffee was more apparent now, and she smiled at it.

Vartan talked her through a grounding exercise, his voice soft and steady, telling Claire to silently catalogue everything her body was experiencing in the present moment—the smell of the coffee and the forest, the cold air from behind and the warmth from the fire, the sound of the wood crackling, and the birds, and the leaves rustling, the taste of the coffee, the warmth of it, the feeling of it as it slid down into her stomach, the colours and objects around her—just to experience them, to acknowledge them, not to judge them. Just to assemble a moment, to acknowledge it, to be _in_ it. Claire felt calmer as they finished, and said so.

‘Good, that’s good. Try and do that once a day; the practise while you’re calm can help you reach for it when you’re distressed.’

It was so simple, and yet Claire could tell exactly how it might help shell-shock. ‘How advanced is the treatment of shell-shock, in your century?’

‘Oh, rather,’ Vartan said. ‘We don’t call it shell-shock any more, we call it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD for short. Sadly, it affects victims of abuse and assault just as much as soldiers, but soldiers are the only ones that get respect for it. Still,’ he said, ‘things _are_ getting better. There’s more _talking about it_ , even regular people tend to know about the more common mental illnesses: depression, anxiety, and trauma, you know.’

By this time, the kettle began to whistle, and Vartan carefully took it off the fire, measuring coffee into the little pitcher, pouring in the water and putting the lid on, pulling up the plunger and looking at his pocket watch, before pushing it down slowly, and pouring the coffee into Claire’s and his cups. He poured the rest of the coffee back into the kettle, and was emptying the grounds onto the dirt just as Ned Gowan and Dougal were coming down the hill.

‘Good morning,’ he said, to them brightly, ‘Coffee?’

‘Oh, my, you have _coffee_?’ Ned Gowan said, coming over at once and sitting down near them. ‘Goodness, yes, that sounds wonderful.’ He held out the little cup he carried with him, holding it as Vartan poured. Dougal watched, and Vartan turned to him, brows raised in query.

‘Would you like some?’

‘I dunnae take what is offered by the Folk,’ he said shortly. Ned hesitated, at that.

‘This isn’t from Underhill, it’s from a coffee house in my world,’ Vartan explained patiently, ‘I carried it _through_ Faerie, but isn’t _from_ there. They don’t grow coffee in Faerie, anyway,’ he added. ‘Even _fairies_ get it from our world.’

‘Fairies are fond of coffee?’ Ned asked, chuckling at the thought.

‘Oh, my, you should see pixies at it. It’s better than _sugar_ , most of _them_ think,’ Vartan replied. ‘Oh, speaking of,’ he said, looking over at what Claire had thought was a flutterby. Vartan took a little pastel-coloured blue sweet from his front pocket, offering it on open hand. ‘Isk-iske,’ he said, almost sounding like a summer insect. The flutterby stopped wandering, and lit upon his hand, revealing slowly that it was no flutterby at all, but a tiny, flutterby-like person, with the same eerie way of moving that insects had, and the same spindly, ephemeral delicacy to its build. It took the candy and promptly stuffed it into a bright yellow mouth, chirping happily. Vartan chuckled.

‘This is Tock Gable, of Sheepshaven,’ he translated, retrieving another sweet from his pocket, this one pink. ‘The thing about pixies,’ he said, as the pixy happily devoured the other sweet, abdomen bulging. ‘Is that they’re Smallfolk, which means peasantry. And you can trust the peasantry, they’re just hungry. It’s the Nobility that are a bit tricksy.’

The pixie squeaked and rasped quite a bit, fluttering over to the cup, curiously sticking his head in the opening.

‘Oh, now, don’t do that, you’ll fall in,’ Vartan said, gently waving him off. ‘Come now, back up, let me open it for you, if you want some.’

‘Isk-iske?’ the pixy asked, with large, multi-faceted eyes, as he took to the air and hovered, watching Vartan take the lid off of his coffee. Claire saw that _Vartan’s_ was full of cream, from the colour—likely sugar too, Claire had never known anyone to take cream without sugar. Vartan gently offered the cup up to the pixy.

‘Isk- _isk_ -iske,’ he assured the pixy, who landed on the rim and uncoiled a flutterby tongue, not at all put off by the heat, like a normal flutterby would be.

‘I cannot believe I am seeing this,’ Ned said, all delight. ‘A real pixie, upon my word!’

‘It’s always useful to be kind to pixies,’ Vartan said, smiling as the pixy flew with renewed energy around them, chattering about how wonderfully good was the hot drink. ‘Because they’re wonderful messengers and spies.’ He switched back to the pixy tongue, and asked if there were any redcoats in the area. The pixy said he hadn’t seen any, but would tell all of his cousins. They were friends of Clan MacKenzie, on account of the Clan remembering to always be leaving out milk and honey for them.

‘Well!’ Vartan said, and smiled. ‘It seems Clan MacKenzie has the loyalty of the pixy nation—at least, those on your lands. You remember to leave milk and honey for them.’

Dougal was starting to look interested, despite himself; and Jamie and the others were starting to wake, and come to see what was going on, only to find Vartan, Ned, Dougal, and Claire all staring at a rather large flutterby that was, currently, resting on Ned’s curious hand.

‘There, now,’ Vartan was telling him. ‘Just hold very still.’

‘What’s all this?’ Murtagh asked Dougal.

‘Fairies,’ Dougal said, watching. ‘He says they’re loyal tae the clan, on account of folk leaving out honey and milk.’

‘Try a little Gaelic,’ Vartan encouraged. Ned did; and in an impossibly tiny voice, they heard the pixy _answer back in Gaelic._

‘Ooh, splendid!’ Vartan said, beaming—and Dougal saw how genuine it was, how innocent. More were emerging, and a few were fluttering around Jamie’s head. He ducked away from them, but didn’t wave them aside.

‘What manner of flutterbies are these, Claire?’ he asked, seeing one in her hair.

‘Pixies,’ Claire said.

‘They like redheads,’ Vartan told him, holding up his coffee in offering, four already crowding the rim of it. ‘Among pixies, bright colour is the most pleasing. So they favour humans with bright colours of hair—ooh, _Jamie_ ,’ he said, in a hush, ‘ _Don’t move a muscle, that’s a **lady**_.’

The lady had larger wings that looked precisely like leaves on the outside, and were fire-bright on the inside; and moved slower, more clumsy, like a moth. She was holding onto Jamie’s curls, and spoke very softly. All the others crowded around her, lighting on Jamie’s shoulders and head to do so.

‘Lady pixies are ever so _rare_ ,’ Vartan said, voice gone quiet with awe, and blue eyes shining behind his spectacles. ‘They’re ever so _fragile_.’

‘Why should they be fragile?’ Claire was nearly offended on her sex’s behalf.

‘Their bones grow last, not first,’ Vartan said, and it made no sense at all; but of course it didn’t, Claire thought; these were _fairies_ , logic didn’t apply to fairies ever—at least, not unless it was _fairy_ logic. ‘Oh my—Jamie, don’t move, but I’m going to come just here, and I’m going to give her some of my coffee. Just hold still, now, that’s a good lad….’

Jamie couldn’t help feeling the tingling chills of something special happening, watching the lady pixy clinging to his ringlet. She was wide of hip, but did not look very braw, as Vartan had said—she looked hungry and pale, and clutched a shawl of spider-web about her narrow little shoulders, even as she held to his hair tightly. He wanted badly to offer his hand to her to sit on, but did not wish to anger a fairy queen, no matter how small.

‘Can I no offer her my hand?’ he whispered to Vartan.

‘In time, Jamie, in time; you are a Very Large Animal, and she is a Very Small Animal. Isk-iske, kfit,’ he said softly to her, as she inhaled the scent of the coffee. Her voice was barely audible to Claire, and not at all audible to anybody else—save Vartan, Claire observed. It must be out of male range, then—she’d heard of that from friends who had worked with Frank, women who had been employed for just that reason.

Vartan, speaking softly in Gaelic to Jamie, coaxed him by turns—first, having him bring his hand up very, very slowly. He took to it well, being how he was with horses, and soon the lady pixy was sitting in his cupped hands, and she was drinking deeply of the coffee using her own little flutterby tongue.

Claire loved the look on Jamie’s face, as he chattered so softly, so gently, with Vartan and the pixies all over him. They rather liked him, by the look of things—and if colour was what they found attractive, well, Jamie was the most colourful human in a hundred miles, Claire shouldn’t wonder! Jamie was so dear, Claire thought; and Ned Gowan was just as enchanted, chattering with the pixy lads fluttering around him and laughing at their antics as they acted out tales of their exploits. She watched as she puttered around boiling more water, finding the little sack of ground coffee in the basket, as well as a sealed thermos cylinder of cream, and a little plastic packet of brown sugar. There was even a tiny bottle of chocolate syrup, though Claire had never heard of putting such a thing in _coffee_.

Vartan had brought nothing else for breakfast, which seemed more like absent-mindedness on his part—and, Claire couldn’t help but recall, he’d said he’d bring ‘something nice for breakfast’, which didn’t so much imply _providing_ the meal as bringing _part_ of it. She recalled American friends who had pot-latch dinners, where everybody brought a dish and a feast was made for everybody from relatively small cost per family.

Well, there were bannocks—and once Claire had made sure everybody had some coffee (she made it as she’d seen Vartan do, though it seemed wrong, wrong, wrong—it tasted right, right, right, sunny and delicious, like light made into drink), nobody was really very upset about it. Everybody agreed upon the coffee, once assured that there was nothing Faerie about something that came with a maker’s mark and very _human_ advertisement upon it, strange though it may be. Many of them, unsurprisingly, had never _had_ coffee, but were much trusting of a dark, bitter drink, that put life into you.

‘What’re ye negotiatin, Jamie?’ Dougal asked, drawing attention to it as he sipped. He’d been eavesdropping, hearing niceties translated between Jamie and the pixy, who was apparently speaking too high to hear—Jamie could see her lips move, but not hear the sound that came from them.

‘If ye’ll come over, ye can join. She’s tryin’ to find shelter for her bairns. Tis a simple thing for us, but such a large favour tae them. I thought maybe we might bring them tae the MacKenzie. They’d be good spies, and messengers.’

‘Aye, and bring the wrath of Father Bain upon us, for makin pacts wi demons,’ Dougal said, not so much because he believed it, but that it was true. Vartan wrinkled his nose.

‘Is that so?’ he said, quietly. ‘Quite fond of power, Father Bain?’

‘Fond enough,’ Claire said grimly.

‘How very _proud_ of him,’ Vartan said airily.

‘You step damn close to insultin’ a man o’ God, sawbones,’ Dougal warned.

‘I am also a Man of God,’ Vartan said. ‘I am merely observing that love of power is not something God holds in high regard. These are poor parishoners, though it is impossible for them to be Christian, as they do not hold the same privileged status as being in possession of a soul, as humans do. But they are poorer for it, and it would be most un-Christian to be unkind to them for their poverty. After all, _angels_ do not possess souls either. That is, of course, my observation,’ he said, ‘It is only my truth, I cannot but tell it to others. But _I_ shall be kind to them, even if Father Bain says I should not.’

‘You’re a Protestant, aren’t you?’ Dougal said, sly as anything.

‘Mm, no,’ Vartan said, thoughtfully. ‘I’m not _anything_ , other than Christian. I believe that Christ died to form the New Covenant with Man, and I worship God, and I believe God is Love, and that He forgives and loves all of us unconditionally. That’s really the beginning and end of it, for me.’

‘Protestant,’ Dougal said with a nod. Vartan rolled his eyes.

‘I’ll confirm Catholic if you all like,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t mind it at all, it’s all the same to me.’

‘That would be wise,’ Ned Gowan said with a nod.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'tiddly-pom' hum is, of course, from Winnie The Pooh.
> 
> Note I have no idea if the Latin I used is correct, I do not speak Latin _'tall_.
> 
> The preparation of Randall's legs is directly lifted from Janice Poon's _Jambe d'homme entier grillé dans l'argile, avec la moelle à côté,_ featured in Bryan Fuller's _Hannibal_. Like Hannibal, the fairies crave human flesh--specifically, the flesh of the 'rude'.
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Come say hi!](https://discord.gg/Mvygfnn%22)


End file.
